


By The Wind Grieved

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hiatus, M/M, Mary Free Zone, Sherlock is gone but not forgotten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realises a truth and gets drunk.  Or vice versa.  There is an interesting meeting in an old London pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Wind Grieved

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks, I didn't really expect to post anything again until my long AU was done. Best laid plans. This little idea has been floating around in my head for a while and I had even started it, then set it aside until I had the time to finish it. But then season three hit and much as I love it, there is also a lot of angst. I mean, it was never going to be johnlock, but...anyway, I decided I needed to do something to cheer myself up. Finishing this did that and I hope it does the same for you. As always, I love hearing what you have to say. BTW, in case anyone has any doubts, much as I love season 3, what happened there [re: the marriage] will not affect my stories. My canon is as valid as theirs!

O lost,  
and by the wind grieved,  
ghost come back again.

-Thomas Wolfe

 

1

The elderly man in the baggy and none-too-clean tweed trousers shuffled slowly in to the examining room. He had probably not actually intended to arrive for his appointment still wearing his bedroom slippers, but that is what he had done. The cracked and shapeless brown leather gave off a soft shushing sound as Mr. Eisner made his way slowly to the patient’s chair that was placed directly in front of the desk. He sat down with a deep sigh as if the journey had been unbelievably long and difficult. Probably it had been.

“Well, hello, Mr. Eisner,” John Watson said cheerfully. Or, at least, as close to cheerfulness as he got these days. Which was a measure approximately equal to the distance between the planet Earth and the sun. Or round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Whichever. “How are you today?”

It was the third visit to the clinic in two weeks by the recent widower. They both knew exactly what was wrong with Eisner, but neither of them ever said anything aloud about it.. They simply talked all around the edges and busied themselves with blood pressure checks and stethoscopes. “I can’t seem to…cope,” was what he whispered now.

“Well, it takes time,” John replied. That was probably the number one phrase on the physician’s approved list of Cliches for the Grieving and it was not the first time he’d said those exact words to Eisner. He’d lost track of how many times they had been said to him by what sometimes seemed to be the entire population of Greater London. He was sure the advice was no more useful to Eisner than it had been to him.

Which was to say, not useful at all, and, after a time, bloody annoying. But at least annoyance was an emotion, which he supposed was a good thing. Humans were supposed to feel things, right? The problem was that sometimes you didn’t get to choose which emotions emerged. It could be dangerous. And not the good kind of dangerous, either.

“Time,” the old man mumbled. “Not sure I’ve got that much left, you know. We were married for fifty-two years. How am I supposed to go on? After so much time, she is---” A fragile fist tapped his chest. “---a part of my being.”

John wanted to tell him that it didn’t take anywhere near fifty-two years for that to happen, but he also knew that the words would have sounded more bitter than was professionally acceptable. But he was very aware that sometimes another person could become essential in much less time than half-a-century. He actually bit his lip to keep from snapping at his poor patient that he should be grateful they’d had so long together. So many years.

God, if only he’d had that long with Sherlock.

On the heels of that thought came another and with it a fresh burst of sympathy for Mr. Eisner. Because even if he had been at Sherlock’s side for fifty-two years and then been forced to watch him jump from a rooftop, he knew very well that, like Eisner, he would still feel cheated.

Eisner’s gnarled fingers scratched at a bit of what looked like egg yolk on the front of his old brown cardigan. “Doctor, every morning I walk into our kitchen expecting to see her standing at the counter making toast. Every morning it tears me apart when no one is there.”

John’s index finger ran across his upper lip. Every morning he walked into the kitchen of 221B, expecting to see a lanky git in a blue silk dressing gown doing something disgusting with one body part or another. And every morning it broke his heart all over again to find the room empty. Emptier than any room he had ever seen.

John leaned back in his chair, wondering what Mr. Eisner really expected him to do. The man’s wife was dead. There was absolutely nothing any medical professional could do that would heal his pain.

Especially a medical man who could not even understand how to fix his own broken heart. A medical man, it had to be said, who that very morning had suffered a sort of mini-breakdown in that so-empty kitchen. A breakdown that caused him to throw a perfectly blameless teacup against the wall, shattering it to bits.

Eisner rambled on about all the ways he missed his Francie and John mostly pretended to listen while remembering rooftop chases and midnight Chinese and flashing eyes. Remembering brilliance spilling at faster-than-light speed and a lightning bright smile. And a not-empty kitchen first thing in the morning.

The pure misery flooding the small room could have drowned them both and John knew that neither of them would have minded in the slightest.

Finally, not really aware of what he was going to say, John leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Francie knew that you loved her, right?” he asked quietly.

Eisner nodded. “Of course she did. I told her every day. Every single day.”

“Then count yourself lucky, sir,” John said. “Some people die never knowing how much they are loved. Other people have to live with the knowledge that they never said those words and now it is too late.” That was undoubtedly too personal for a doctor to say to a patient, but he couldn’t really be arsed to care. It was only the truth, after all.

After a long moment of silence, John removed the stethoscope from around his neck. “Let’s listen to your chest, shall we?” They would hear what a broken heart sounded like.

Nobody said anything else about love or loss.

They talked about the unseasonably warm weather.

 

2

John refused to meet Lestrade in their usual pub. The pub where they’d sometimes had a friendly drink while Sherlock was in the lab or in his mind palace or just making John slightly crazy in the flat.

But he wouldn’t go there now.

It was a copper hangout, John had explained the first time Lestrade suggested meeting up, afterwards, and you couldn’t really trust the police, could you? At any moment, they might turn from friend to foe. They might arrest you, shackle you, try to haul you into the cells. 

That’s what coppers did, it seemed, and so John did not feel safe around them. Surely Lestrade could understand that. Couldn’t he?

There had been a long silence on the other end of the phone call.

Finally, Lestrade cleared his throat and suggested a new pub not far from Baker Street. Reluctantly, John agreed to show up.

So now they sometimes met in a place that was a tribute to plastic ferns, muted soft rock music, and the chattering of the young and newly monied class. John never bothered to learn the name of the pub. They would each have a couple of over-priced pints, sometimes a basket of fancy chips with wasabi mayo, and very little conversation, before parting ways again.

It seemed a pointless exercise, in John’s opinion, but at the same time, it was no more pointless than everything else in his life these days, so he continued to show up.

However, after his appointment with Mr. Eisner, John was really not in the mood for yet another misery session, this time with the D.I., but it just seemed like too much effort to actually call and cancel. So, right on time, he arrived to find Lestrade already ensconced in a booth, with two pints sitting in front of him.

John only nodded a greeting and slid in across from Lestrade.

For several minutes they just sat, drinking, and watching the mating ritual being enacted by an oily City type and a petite redhead with a noticeable overbite, who seemed to be falling for the glib talk.

Finally, Lestrade took a deep breath. “How are you, John? Really?” It was the first time he’d asked that question.

John’s fingers played with the coaster idly. He gave careful thought to his answer, because it seemed important. “I am…grieving,” was what he finally said. It sounded like the right word. It sounded like the perfect word.

“Still?” Lestrade said.

“Is there a time limit on grief?” John snapped in return.

“No, no, of course not,” Lestrade said quickly. “But I had thought that by now…” The inspector lifted a hand to indicate that two more pints were wanted and neither man spoke until the drinks had been delivered and the barmaid was gone again. He looked like a man who had planned what he wanted to say and was determined to plow ahead no matter what. “You’re a strong man, John. I know it hurt when Sherlock died. I felt very badly about it as well and you were his best friend, so I can only imagine how…well, I know it was hard.” Lestrade paused, staring at a colourful and dreadful painting of a pig on the far wall. “It was such a waste. He never really had the time to become the good man I always thought he could be.”

John stiffened. “Sherlock was already a good man,” he said in a cold voice. “Although apparently I was the only one who bothered to notice that.”

Lestrade lifted his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “That being said,” he went on, “he would not want you to be hurting so much.”

John almost smiled. “Are you certain about that? Sherlock was a drama queen. I suspect he would want me to rend my garments and go wailing through the streets of London.”

After a pause, Lestrade sighed. “Pretty much what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

John’s voice when he spoke was very soft, almost lost in the background noise of the pub. “I most always did what he wanted me to.”

All conversation pretty much dwindled off at that point. After finishing his second pint, John bid Lestrade goodbye and went back to Baker Street.

 

3

On some days, John felt as if the job were the only thing keeping him sane. Perhaps it was just the fact of having a routine; people found routine comforting, did they not? As a former military man, he was quite used to it. Even his life as a former…whatever the hell he’d been---blogger? assistant? slavish lap dog? only friend? a bit of each, probably---had a certain structure to it. Admittedly, back in those days, which already seemed so long ago, their routine was likely to be blown up at any moment by sudden and random acts of violence. Not unlike the military, now that he came to think of it.

Back to the point, which was supposed to be about his routine now that Sherlock Holmes was…out of the picture.

Up at seven without the need for an alarm. Usually he was awake even before that hour, listening to the silence and imagining violin music. Sometimes, in that fleeting moment between Morpheus and the day, he was convinced that he could actually hear a few notes floating from the sitting room.

Tea and toast in the tidy kitchen. Most days he did not, in fact, throw his teacup at the wall, although rather more frequently than it should have the toast ended up in the rubbish bin.

A shower and a shave, as he sometimes contemplated the notion of growing a moustache. Not that he really intended to do it, of course, because when he’d done so once before, it had aged him and he felt old enough as it was. But he knew that the very idea would have made Sherlock chuckle and it was nice to start the day on a pleasant note.

He always dressed quickly in the everyday camouflage of John Watson, doctor and civilian and aging non-entity, before catching the tube to the clinic.

The days varied little. Patients, notes, lunch. Patients, notes, the tube again. Boring, yes, god yes, but it kept him moving and if he kept moving then he was alive, right?

At first, just after, everyone at the clinic had treated him kindly, but distantly, never actually mentioning the reason he was grey and quiet and sad. Sarah was kind and let him leave early more than once when it all became too much. But by now, months later, he was more or less ignored by the rest of the staff, other than absent-minded greetings and invitations  
to the weekly pizza lunch gathering. John sometimes attended, ate one slice of the ham-and-pineapple, and exchanged a few words with Sarah so he would not be thought rude.

Once his slice of pizza was eaten, he would retreat again to his office and stare at the wall until lunch was over and the first afternoon patient was shown in. The office had become his sanctuary.

Which was why it was something of a surprise when the door opened again after his last patient had departed, whilst he was still getting ready to leave. “Yes, Sarah?” he said absently, hanging his lab jacket and reaching for his wallet. “Is there another patient?”

“No, John.” She looked a little nervous.

Maybe he was being made redundant. Which would be financially inconvenient. Beyond that fact, John realised that he didn’t care much. Probably not a good thing in a doctor. “What then?”

“Can we talk?”

Oh, apparently it was to be an easy termination. “Certainly. Have a seat.” He waved towards the chair, but instead she went to sit on the small settee in the corner. “All right,” he muttered, before joining her. “What’s up?”

“I have been wanting to speak with you for some time now,” she said carefully. “It’s been months since…your troubles.”

Troubles. How delicate. That was probably how a doctor should talk.

“Six months.” And then, just because he could, and also because it seemed like the sort of thing his dead friend would have appreciated, he added, “Two weeks, three days, and, ahh---” A quick glance at his watch. “---eight hours.”

She looked slightly taken aback. “Right.” Then she seemed to soften a little. “John, I know it has been hard on you. Suicide is horrid in any circumstance and with someone as…alive and vital as Sherlock, it is even harder to accept. All things considered, I think you have done very well since the loss of your friend.”

He considered telling her about the ritual tossing of teacups. The long nights spent just sitting and staring into the darkness. The utter helplessness.

The contemplation of a moustache.

But he said nothing.

“I think you might be ready to start living your life again,” Sarah said. She gazed at him for a long moment. “You know that when we broke up it was not because I stopped liking you or wanting to be with you. It was only that things were so complicated. It was like…” She waved a hand. “He took up all the oxygen in the room.”

John just continued to look at her mildly.

The fact that he not gotten angry or just left the room seemed to give her the impetus to continue. “Sherlock did not seem inclined to allow you any chance to have a life of your own. And, for whatever reason, you always indulged him.”

John crossed his arms, but did not say anything.

Sarah gave a nervous giggle. “This takes courage, you know? But it’s important, I think, for both of us. So I’ll be honest. I want us to try again. Work towards the relationship we might have had before without... “ She broke off. “John, I feel sure that we could be good together.”

He supposed it did take courage for her to do this. To be honest about what she wanted, which seemed to be a relationship with him. Now that he was free.

Except, of course, that he wasn’t.

Didn’t really want to be, he understood suddenly.

“Shall we go dance on his grave?” he murmured. That was a terrible thing to say and he knew it. She didn’t deserve it.

Sarah looked shocked, understandably enough. “John, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Oh, I’ve been very clumsy at this, haven’t I? She reached out a hand, as if to touch his cheek, but must have seen something, a slight tightening in his muscles perhaps, because the gesture faltered. “I just think…I know that it sounds trite, but your life has to go on. I’d like to share that life with you and see how we manage.”

John tilted his head a little and looked at her thoughtfully. 

And in that moment, he knew. 

It was not exactly a revelation, not quite. He’d long ago accepted that Sherlock Holmes was the most important person in his life; that he loved him as the best friend that he’d ever had. But as Sarah talked about having a relationship with him, it was as if a spotlight had suddenly illuminated the darkest corners of his heart and his soul. And what John saw was a truth that he had been working to hide even from himself because it was so devastating.

“Sarah,” he said carefully, “I have to thank you.”

“Yes?” She looked tentative.

“He always said I was an idiot, but I never really knew how right he was until this moment. But you, your words here, have made me realise just what is going on inside my head.”

An uncertain smile touched her lips. “That’s good, isn’t it? So? What next, then?”

He stood and went to grab his jacket from the hook.

“John?”

“Oh, Sarah, you have been very kind to me. Always. More so than I deserved, probably. But I can’t have a relationship with you.” He pulled the jacket on and gave a shrug. “I’m already in a relationship.”

“But--?”

He shook his head. “I’m not ready to let go, Sarah. Probably I never will be. Possibly I can’t. Call me a fool. Call me pathetic. You’d be right on both counts, I’m sure. But this is just the way it is for me.”

Sudden and stark realisation crossed her face. “John,” she said and this time her voice was filled with pity.

He smiled faintly. “See you tomorrow,”

She just let him go without saying anything else.

 

4

John did not feel like going home after leaving the clinic. That word was a misnomer, of course. More correctly, John did not feel like going back to the place where he lived, which used to be a home, but was no longer. He needed to reflect upon his conversation with Sarah and what it all meant.

Honestly, he was surprised.

Oh, not about the fact that he was still grieving or about missing Sherlock so much that it was like a constant gnawing emptiness in his gut. John knew all of that and lived with it every single day. “He was my best friend,” he’d said so often since that day. “Of course I still miss him.”

God, he’d been such a blind idiot.

He loved Sherlock. Not like one friend cared for another. It was so much more than that and all those people who had always assumed that it was, starting with Mrs. Hudson and Angelo right at the beginning and including the Adler woman and even fucking Moriarty, had all been right. John Watson was the only one who didn’t see the truth.

Definitely, the only one, because stupid as he was, John did not delude himself that Sherlock had not known the truth as well. [Which made John a little angry, because Sherlock knew, and he still jumped off that building, the bastard.]

It was so simple, now that it was staring him in the face.

He loved Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes was dead.

The terrible thought occurred that now he would have to begin mourning all over again and that this time it would be even worse because he would be grieving for his…well, there wasn’t really a word for it, was there?

He would be grieving Sherlock Holmes. The man he loved.

John decided he was satisfied with that description.

He walked for a very long time without any real idea of where he was going. And when he finally did stop and look around, the neighborhood was not one he recognised immediately.

This was one of those moments when it would have been very useful to have Sherlock at his side, because the detective knew every street, alley, and mews in the city.

John did not flinch from the knowledge that for every moment of his life it would have been useful to have Sherlock at his side. Useful and exciting and just plain wonderful.

Finally he saw a street sign that indicated he was only a twenty-minute walk from Regent’s Park. No so far from home then, after all, just misplaced on some tiny sidestreet.

He spotted a pub on the opposite corner and liked the old-fashioned look of the façade. John had always preferred the traditional pubs to the newer, trendy ones with ridiculous names that increasingly filled the city. This one, The Noble Fusilier, looked just the thing.

John crossed the street and entered the pub. The interior did not disappoint. All dark wood and gilded mirror and staid portraits of bewhiskered, grim-faced generals. He was not even put off by the lingering odor of more than a century of pipe and cigar smoke that lingered in the walls. It fit, as did the furniture which had not changed since Victoria sat on the throne.

There were no electronic games, no music or big-screen television blaring a football match. John gave a satisfied sigh. This was just what he’d needed, without really knowing it.

He ordered a pint of the cask ale on offer and carried it to a solitary table near the back. Several other tables were occupied and the soft sound of quiet conversations floated through the room. In a far corner, two men were playing an easy game of darts.

It was a good place in which to sit and think. There was, of course, only one thing he wanted to think about. After a few minutes, he realised that it was quite easy to pinpoint the exact moment he’d fallen in love with Sherlock, without even knowing it.

He felt himself smile a little.

On that first case, the lady in pink one, while limping away from the crime scene, he had looked up into the moonlit sky and seen what was like a vision from some gothic novel. It was Sherlock, standing on a rooftop, gazing out over his city, and seeming to be a part of the night itself. It retrospect, it should have been obvious at that moment that, for John Watson, the die was cast.

Helplessly in love and completely ignorant of that fact.

John did not know whether he should laugh or cry.

However, before he could do either, a voice interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me, sir, might I join you?”

John looked up.

The stranger---for John was sure they’d never met---was a man some years older than he, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache that, briefly, made John toy with the idea again. The newcomer wore a three-piece tweed suit and, somewhat amusingly, held a cane in one hand.

John took a look around the pub. “There are other tables,” he said, knowing that it sounded a bit rude, but really not in the mood for company.

“I dislike drinking alone,” was what the man said, sounding cheerful. “And you look like a chap who could use some company as well.”

“Do I indeed? Pride yourself on knowing me at a glance, is that it?”

“Certainly not. I have no talents in that direction.”

John was staring at the tabletop. “Very few people do.”

“Indeed.” Apparently, he took John’s words as an invitation to sit and he did. “So, you’re a doctor.”

Now John frowned. Stalker? Crazed Sherlock fan? They still occasionally turned up.

But the stranger only smiled again. “You neglected to remove your identification tag before leaving work today.” He peered more closely. “Dr. John Watson.”

John nodded and pulled the tag from around his neck, shoving it into his pocket. “A long day.”

“I expect so.”

“So you know who I am,” John said, raising a brow.

“Oh, sorry, how rude.” The man held out a hand. “James.”

They shook briefly, but something in the man’s voice made John ask, “Is that really your name?”

“On occasion. Is that a problem?”

John didn’t care, really, so he just shrugged.

They sat in silence and drank for several moments.

“What do you want?” John asked finally. “If you are from the press, excuse me, but go fuck yourself. If you are just curious and looking to find out more about Sherlock Holmes…well, also go fuck yourself.”

“I am not from the press. I am not curious.”

“Then what?”

James or whoever tasted the ale again. “Perhaps I simply recognised a kindred spirit.”

John thought that the man had a kindly face, but all he wanted was to be left alone to wallow in the past and in the newfound knowledge that was slowly and carefully lacerating his soul. “Oh, really? Your best friend killed himself in front of you, did he?”

James just shook his head.

“In that case.” John watched the darts match again. “I don’t mean to be rude, James,” he said. “But believe me when I say that I will not be good company.”

“We needn’t talk.”

And so they did not. They drank, John somewhat more than the other man, but they did not really talk, beyond an occasional remark on the progress of the darts match.

Several pints in, John peered rather blearily at his watch. “I should…go,” he mumbled.

“Shall I fetch you a cab?”

He shook his head. “I like to walk at night. He did that. Now I do.”

Moments later they were both standing on the pavement.

John was suspicious again. “Are you following me?”

“Not at all. We are simply walking in the same direction. I would not like an accident to occur before you get back to Baker Street.”

John thought there was something wrong in what James had said, but whatever it was slipped away before he could decipher it. Again they fell silent as they walked.

They were nearly at Regent’s Park before John spoke again. “My friend jumped off a building,” he said.

“Yes. I know,” James replied. “It was in all the papers.”

At that, for some reason, John laughed a little, softly.

 

 

5

Somehow it was decided that a nightcap was in order.

They reached Baker Street and John unlocked the door. “Quietly,” he said. “Don’t want to wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“Indeed not.”

They moved silently up the stairs and into the flat. John turned to ask if James preferred a can of lager or a shot of whiskey, but then he paused. 

James had taken two steps inside and then stopped. His eyes seemed to be taking in every corner of the room and there was a strange expression on his face.

“Something wrong?” John asked, perhaps more belligerently than necessary. If he chose to live surrounded by his dead friend’s possessions, whose business was it?

“Nothing at all,” James replied quietly. “It’s a lovely, homely place.”

And John could see nothing judgmental in his face. Instead, it was almost…nostalgic?

They decided, probably unwisely, on the whiskey. John fetched the bottle of Glenfiddich that Mycroft had given Sherlock for Xmas once upon a time and two slightly dusty shot glasses. James sat in John’s chair and John stretched out on the settee. The only light came in from the kitchen and the hall.

John knew that he was rather drunk, which probably explained why he downed the whiskey much too quickly. He could feel a lassitude creeping over him and welcomed it.

James lit a pipe, an action to which John knew he should object, but the tobacco had a rather lovely scent, so he said nothing.

John was already on to his third shot when James began to talk, his voice soft and confidential in tone. “My friend did not jump from a building. He tumbled from a precipice into a waterfall. I found the note he left behind.”

“That’s what people do,” John murmured. “Leave a note.”

James had scarcely touched his drink and now he set it aside. “My grief knew no bounds.”

John just looked at him.

“So when I said ‘kindred spirit’ those were not idle words, John. More than anyone else, I understand how you are feeling.”

Well, not exactly, John wanted to say, sipping his drink, because your friend was not the world’s only consulting detective with quicksilver eyes and a brilliant mind. But he didn’t say that aloud. What he did say instead surprised him just a bit. “I loved him,” he whispered to the stranger. “I still do.”

“I know.” James leaned forward a little and spoke in a firm voice. “I do understand, John.”

And suddenly John knew that James really did. “I miss him so much,” John mumbled, resting his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes. Even without looking, he knew that James had gotten up from the chair and moved to stand close to the settee.

“My friend came back,” James whispered. “He was dead and then he wasn’t. He came back to me.”

John struggled through the fog of sleep. “But Sherlock…jumped. I saw it happen. I saw…”

James leaned down. “He came back to me and your Sherlock will come back to you. Patience, John.”

Before John could say anything more, the blackness descended.

6

Although he was awake, John kept his eyes closed, because he knew that when he opened them the hangover would crash into him like a double-decker bus. God, it had been a very long time since he’d gotten so drunk.

But then he decided that after everything that had happened the day before, the week before, the months before, he’d deserved it. If only he didn’t have to pay for it now.

This was his first morning of waking up knowing he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he loved him, that was old news, but that he was //in// love with him.

Which no doubt explained the freaking crazy dream he’d had.

John sighed.

Finally, he rolled over and opened his eyes.

And saw two glasses sitting on the table. The faint scent of some exotic tobacco lingered in the air. John pushed himself up. It had to be a dream, right?

But two glasses. The smell of a pipe.

Had he really sat here with a man named James who’d lost a friend and had him return? For just a moment, John closed his eyes again. When he opened them, both glasses were still there.

Tea, John decided. I need tea.

It was as he stood there, leaning against the counter and waiting for the kettle to boil, that John felt the truth, a new truth, fill him.

//Sherlock will come back.//

And, just that quickly, he believed it. Impossible as it seemed, just like with James’ friend, Sherlock would be back.

Instinctively and instantly, John also understood that this was not something he could share with anyone else. Truthfully, he didn’t even want to. This was his secret and he would hold it in his heart, in the same place he’d been holding Sherlock since that day at Barts. [Which day? The one it all began in the lab? Or the one it all ended on the roof? Didn’t matter, really.]

Carefully, he made his tea and then sat at the kitchen table, which still held a microscope and empty flasks, to drink it. A smile appeared on his lips without any real intention on his part.

He was halfway through the tea, still smiling, when a few tears began to roll down his face. It was like one of those rare days when the sun kept shining even as rain fell. 

It was a day with a rainbow.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Around him, it seemed as if all of 221B sighed in relief.

 

fini

**Author's Note:**

> Just for those who don't know: In The Man With The Twisted Lip, John Watson's wife [she who will not be named here!] actually calls him "James". So even ACD, blessed be his name, could goof. Anyway, that slip came in very handy for me here, didn't it?


End file.
